


Written in the Dust

by elaine



Category: The Sentinel
Genre: Episode Related, First Kiss, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-24
Updated: 2013-11-24
Packaged: 2018-01-02 11:34:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,562
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1056276
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elaine/pseuds/elaine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jim and Blair go back to where it all started.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Written in the Dust

The door to Sandburg’s office is closed. Jim leans heavily on his walking stick, his lips thinned. He silently damns old buildings with no elevators; walking’s okay, but stairs are a bitch.

Sandburg’s not there. He can see that easily enough, through the decorative etched glass. Nobody’s there. The room’s stripped bare, and cardboard boxes are piled in corners, all taped up and ready to go. A small file holder sits, solitary, on the desk.

Jim would consider using his cellphone, but Sandburg’s not answering much these days, so he leaves it heavy in his pocket and contemplates going back home. The stairs are even more of a bitch going down.

And the elevator in their building isn’t working. More stairs to climb when he gets home, and an empty loft at the top.

Sandburg won’t be there. He never is, during the day. He’s gone at first light, back long after dark. Not that it’s difficult this time of year, but it’s not as if he has anywhere to go, anyone to be with.

He thinks about going inside. Maybe Sandburg… but it’s obvious he’s finished here. He won’t be back.

Jim’s hand tightens on the walking stick. Twice this week, already, he’s had to talk Sandburg down from a panic attack. Last time he found him throwing stuff into his ratty old backpack. Just clothes and the Burton monologue, as though there was nothing else that really mattered.

Next time, maybe, Jim will pack for him. At least then he’ll know it’s been done right.

His jaw’s aching. Jim swallows. He should definitely leave. There must be somewhere he needs to be.

“Are you looking for Mr Sandburg? He’s not here.” The woman steps back, her eyes widening when Jim turns to face her.

He forces a smile, sees her relax a fraction. “Do you know where he’s gone?”

“Well…” she wrinkles her forehead artfully. It’s clearly meant to be charming but Jim remains unaffected. “He went down to the basement, but that was a while ago. He might have left there by now, and he didn’t say where he was going after that. Well, he wouldn’t, would he?” she giggles, and the sound echoes sharply in the hallway. Then she covers her mouth with her hand. “I mean…” her eyes narrow slightly and her breath hitches. She must have figured out who he is.

“I’ll go check out the basement.” Jim limps past her, ignoring her confusion.

He realises he doesn’t care.

Ironic, that.

***

The stairs are every bit as difficult as Jim expects. By the time he’s negotiated the narrow and unevenly spaced stairs from the first floor down to the basement, his knee is a burning lump of agony.

Sandburg could be anywhere down here, but instinct or almost forgotten habit leads Jim down the hallway to the right. He stops in front of the old wooden door with the discreet plaque. He remembers when it had a small scrap of paper, with ‘Blair Sandburg’ in neat block letters, taped beneath. He remembers the smell of incense and the sound of grunge metal.

Four years ago, he’d never even heard the term ‘grunge metal’, let alone known what it sounded like.

Now, there’s only silence and the smell of dust, but the door’s slightly ajar, so he pushes it open and goes inside. Sandburg turns to face him as he enters, his eyes dark and evasive.

The light bulb does little to illuminate the room and it looks nothing like his memories, sunlight streaming in, reflecting off the dust motes and revealing the details of what are now just misshapen lumps on the shelves. Just like Sandburg looks nothing like the kid he knew back then.

Perhaps he sees something in the way Jim’s leaning on his cane, because he offers a small, apologetic smile. “Sorry. I wanted to come down here. See if I’d left anything behind.”

It’s a ridiculous excuse. Sandburg hasn’t used this room in three years and anything he hasn’t needed in that time he probably won’t ever need again. Jim ignores that fact as he’s learned to ignore so many things in the last week. It’s either that or risk yet another fight, each one worse than the time before. “You finished here?”

Sandburg’s mouth tightens. “You go on home, Jim. I’ll… I won’t be long.”

“I’m supposed to help you with the boxes, remember?” Not that he’s going to  _be_  any help with the boxes, with his leg barely holding up. Most of them will be too heavy for him to carry one handed and he’s not going anywhere without the walking stick.

“I’ll manage.” There’s an edge to his voice that matches the one in Jim’s. Then the tension in the wide shoulders dissipates and Sandburg turns away. “This was my first office, you know?” the words so soft Jim barely hears them. A small laugh. “I really thought I’d made it, when they told me I could use it.” He runs a finger along the edge of one shelf and Jim realises he can see the individual specks of dust erupting from under his fingertip. He dials back his sight to a level only slightly higher than normal.

“It’s stupid. The office upstairs is much better,” Sandburg glances at Jim briefly, “but so much happened in this room.”

“Maya,” Jim says. It’s the first thing he thinks of.

Sandburg told him about that tawdry, ridiculous ‘picnic’ a few days after Maya dumped him, and after a sufficient amount of alcohol loosened his tongue. For some reason the story struck Jim as both ludicrous and pathetic. He didn’t, at the time, know who he most wanted to strangle, Maya or Sandburg.

But Jim’s not an unreasonable man. He doesn’t blame Maya – at least not much – for being pretty and vulnerable, or for her schoolgirlish attempt at seduction. He doesn’t blame Sandburg – not really – for being shallow enough to be attracted by her. Maya was so different from his usual girlfriends, maybe it was simply the novelty that appealed to him.

No, Jim blames himself for putting Sandburg into the situation in the first place. He should have known from Sandburg’s reaction to her that asking him to gather information on a young, pretty student’s father was a bad idea. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t known Sandburg was a horn dog, after all.

“Not Maya.” Sandburg shakes his head. He’s staring at the floor and his mouth trembles a little. “You, Jim. It’s always been you.”

The rapid patter of drumming is, Jim realises, the sound of his own heartbeat. Too fast, much too fast; but no faster than Sandburg’s. Caught by the sounds, Jim forgets to speak and he sees Sandburg’s shoulder rise in a tiny shrug as he turns away, his face blanking.

“And you’re only telling me now?” Too loud, too harsh. He tries again. “What’s this about, Sandburg?”

Sandburg stays half turned away. The tension’s back in his shoulders. “Nothing left to lose now, man. Besides…” there’s a long pause Jim doesn’t even consider breaking. “…besides, you’re not my study subject any more.”

So what’s he supposed to do? Freak out and give him an excuse to leave? Jim crosses his arms over his chest. It might have worked a week ago, but things have changed since then, and he’s not going anywhere. Sandburg will have to try harder, if that’s what he wants. “We met at the hospital first, remember? Not here. Or is that next on your list of places to visit?”

He shakes his head, smiling a little. “This is where it really started, Jim.”

Jim remembers the sense of desperation that brought him here, the angry dismay as he realised he’d pinned his few remaining hopes on a punk kid who was spinning him the biggest line of bullshit he’d ever heard. But the punk kid had been right.

Actually, Sandburg has been right about a lot of things over the years. It occurs to Jim that he really shouldn’t be so surprised about that any more.

Maybe Sandburg’s right about this, too.

And it’s not – Jim thinks he ought to be honest about this, even if only in the privacy of his own mind – as if he hasn’t wanted this for a long time. Given the current mess, Sandburg  _is_  right; there’s not a lot left to lose, for either of them.

He limps forward a couple of steps. It’s not a particularly big room, with shelving filling up most of the area, so that puts him well within Sandburg’s personal space. He remembers the heat of Sandburg’s body, trapped between him and the shelf, the smell of incense and aftershave and nervous musk, the feel of the bright, coarsely woven vest against his palms. He sees the memory reflected in Blair’s widening eyes, in the dawning hope on his face. “I can’t lift you up. My knee won’t handle it.”

A tiny smile appears in the corners of Sandburg’s mouth. “I think I can manage.” He rises up on tiptoes, his hands coming to rest, palms flat, against the front of Jim’s shoulders. He turns his face up, lips parting expectantly.

Jim lets his walking stick drop with a dull clatter and takes a double fistful of Sandburg’s shirt. As first kisses go, it’s not bad.

Not bad at all.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Write kindness in marble and write injuries in the dust. 
> 
> Persian proverb.


End file.
